The world is strange,
people are not own,
Only the Heart knows
what it has foregone
What is this strife,
what's the problem
they too are far,
those who are near,
The heart beats,
like the mute wants to speak,
everyone is but a stranger, I fear
Does one know why we are alive
when we are ashamed, even of ourselves
From our eyes we fall, like a tear
whether they accept, they know themselves;
Let there be some promise to keep
Let there be a possession to give
Some journey, some road, some goal to reach;
Let there be at least a reason to live.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem